Friday, May 28, 2004
A week on the road past San Bernadino
Pulling onto Alabama exit just east of San Bernardino, off citrus avenue as the organ groves roll endless, sits the taco stand. The view in the distance can be heard of on and off trucking traffic as two highway patrolmen enjoy early grub to beat the busy lunch crowd which mainly consist of constructor workers, strippers and waitresses from the neighboring casinos, architects who are slumming it in the middle of the week, and a television that plays Jerry Springer as a means of keeping the peace. The rest rooms are out back and the heat can be unbearable after one o'clock just as the traffic starts to pick up pace for the after school traffic into Los Angeles and Fontana. There's also the Palm Springs traffic, but that usually doesn't hit until Friday afternoon through Sunday night late and into Monday morning. The flow of people is constant and the setting is a Penn Station of sorts as it pours in traffic as a vessel between Vegas and Los Angeles. Those who live here are stuck in the middle and learn to like desert living and are the pie in the sky expansion pioneers of progress who secretly wet dream the idea of connecting the two cities. Palm Spring and Los Angeles are already tackled. Only 200 some odd miles to go, and even less to the Nevada line.
Pulling onto Alabama exit just east of San Bernardino, off citrus avenue as the organ groves roll endless, sits the taco stand. The view in the distance can be heard of on and off trucking traffic as two highway patrolmen enjoy early grub to beat the busy lunch crowd which mainly consist of constructor workers, strippers and waitresses from the neighboring casinos, architects who are slumming it in the middle of the week, and a television that plays Jerry Springer as a means of keeping the peace. The rest rooms are out back and the heat can be unbearable after one o'clock just as the traffic starts to pick up pace for the after school traffic into Los Angeles and Fontana. There's also the Palm Springs traffic, but that usually doesn't hit until Friday afternoon through Sunday night late and into Monday morning. The flow of people is constant and the setting is a Penn Station of sorts as it pours in traffic as a vessel between Vegas and Los Angeles. Those who live here are stuck in the middle and learn to like desert living and are the pie in the sky expansion pioneers of progress who secretly wet dream the idea of connecting the two cities. Palm Spring and Los Angeles are already tackled. Only 200 some odd miles to go, and even less to the Nevada line.
Monday, May 17, 2004
Why I am a potential heart attack canidate: (in no particular order):
Citibank, Verizon, Comcast, Sprint and AOL. It's not that I don't have the money to pay for your services. It's the customer service aspect I can't afford. The slave labor hired to deal with corporate inefficiency. It is me versus the customer service mob, at the mercy of a calling center in Bangladesh, San Antonio or Newark. Places that are as remote from my backyard and from my cash under the matress. With compliance, id numbers, social security numbers, frustration, 9th time calling, 4 different fax numbers, no follow up, deals I don't need, cable channels I don't watch, credit cards I don't have, life insurance I apparently don't have the wisdom to pursue, (maybe I do), home equity lines, my mother's maiden name, addition and subtraction that must be contended, problems I must rehash over and over again, merger and acquisitions. I hear of another merger, another by-out, another change that I must go through to reach my customer service center. Not another service that must bend to meet my needs. It's always the other way around. The leverage of consolidating assets for further reaching demographics. A net that is cast across the Middle America that is shrinking. For business and earnings per share the middle class is shrinking and I am one. They are 2.5 BN in revenue. I am one. The comcast van broke down and they are late. They are only available when I am working. They are only available eastern time and during the week. When I am available, they are not. When I have a problem with what I pay, they are not around. Only numbers that must be present through protocol from more numbers. Bigger somewhere along the line became synonomous with better. Might is right is more like it.
Citibank, Verizon, Comcast, Sprint and AOL. It's not that I don't have the money to pay for your services. It's the customer service aspect I can't afford. The slave labor hired to deal with corporate inefficiency. It is me versus the customer service mob, at the mercy of a calling center in Bangladesh, San Antonio or Newark. Places that are as remote from my backyard and from my cash under the matress. With compliance, id numbers, social security numbers, frustration, 9th time calling, 4 different fax numbers, no follow up, deals I don't need, cable channels I don't watch, credit cards I don't have, life insurance I apparently don't have the wisdom to pursue, (maybe I do), home equity lines, my mother's maiden name, addition and subtraction that must be contended, problems I must rehash over and over again, merger and acquisitions. I hear of another merger, another by-out, another change that I must go through to reach my customer service center. Not another service that must bend to meet my needs. It's always the other way around. The leverage of consolidating assets for further reaching demographics. A net that is cast across the Middle America that is shrinking. For business and earnings per share the middle class is shrinking and I am one. They are 2.5 BN in revenue. I am one. The comcast van broke down and they are late. They are only available when I am working. They are only available eastern time and during the week. When I am available, they are not. When I have a problem with what I pay, they are not around. Only numbers that must be present through protocol from more numbers. Bigger somewhere along the line became synonomous with better. Might is right is more like it.
Wednesday, May 05, 2004
Between guzzling Lowenbrau and gawking at Dick Van Dyke on the PAX television network in the Ramada Inn neon night for four hours, something in Russ snapped. How else could it be deemed perfectly acceptable to steal the desk clerk’s motorcycle? Witness accounts say that Russ had entered the hotel lobby yelling racial epithets, telling the clerk to “go back to Pakistan or wherever you come from,” after complaining that the On Demand hotel movies weren’t working properly. Other witnesses report that Russ was intoxicated to the point of no recovery, proclaiming loudly that he must, “get the two-wheeler weapon away from the Arabs.” After the highly charged hotel lobby incident, Russ decided that the only thing left to do was take a nap. All would be better in the morning. The Daytona 500 wasn't starting until noon.
Monday, May 03, 2004
Post Derby Hang over consist of McGriddle Sandwiches, long walk stares into the mid sunday morning television, and wondering what's going to be on 60 minutes that night after you wake from a numbing nap that rattles Lakers vs Spurs scores through your ears. Baseball can be heard outside, but the thought that a horse outside of Kentucky could pull off the 1st Saturday in May two years running can be a lot to stomach (much more than the bourbon you went through at the Oaks on Friday)..
